


The First Hunter

by ADRNTESPDR



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodborne - Freeform, Gehrman the First Hunter - Freeform, Moon Presence - Freeform, Plain Doll - Freeform, The Hunter's Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6375565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADRNTESPDR/pseuds/ADRNTESPDR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunters are now a rare sight in Yharnam, and the first of their kind grows weary. Gehrman, the First Hunter wishes to end his loneliness and guilt. How far will he go to regain what he has lost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Hunter

Gehrman awoke with a start. The abrupt transition from dream to reality was always jarring. His old neck was sore from slumping over in his wheelchair. He tiredly lifted his head and took in his reality. The workshop was the same as it always had been except the candles had long since run their course, and their melted wax ran down the candlesticks to harden once more on the tables and desks they set upon. The workshop was now only lit by the moon, which now hung low in the night sky. Gehrman grabbed his cane which had been leaned against the near wall and placed it on his lap before wheeling himself toward the side entrance of the shop. He rolled onto the hard dirt and soft grass to look out across the garden. The flowers were starting to reflect his neglect—drying and wilting away with time. The flowers brought sorrow out of Gehrman, and he wished they had died sooner. Maria had taken too good care of them and in turn had bestowed upon them her strength and resolve. Gehrman surveyed the garden and released a short sigh. Regardless of how much sleep he got, he was always tired. He heard a scream in the distance and lifted his attention to the towering shapes of Yharnam’s cityscape. The faint glow of an army of torches painted the sides of the buildings. The Hunt was in full swing tonight. It happened every night—each one more horrendous and bloody than the last. Yharnam was losing to the scourge. Gehrman felt the pull of the Hunt. He could feel the weight of his scythe still resting on his back. He could almost smell the sweat and blood of his days as a Hunter. Unfortunately, Gehrman was well past his prime and would be more a burden than an aid.

Gehrman had long lost hope of anyone coming to the workshop. His residence was as obsolete as its owner. Hunters were a dying breed and any still breathing were losing themselves to bloodlust. No. He would spend the night alone just as he did every other one. Gehrman turned his chair and slowly made his way to the center of the garden. Along the wall and on a small outcropping jutting from the lower foundation of the workshop lied a doll. It was plain in appearance, but Gehrman had made it just right. It was exactly how it should be. It had slumped from its sitting position on the edge of the outcropping—mimicking Gehrman’s recent nap. Gehrman wheeled himself to the doll and leaned it upright again. He gave a small grunt of frustration and dragged it to the foundation and placed it there. He placed its hands on its lap to give it an air of sophistication and noticed the hair had gotten rather messy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, small brush. As he brushed the doll’s hair, the distant screams of the Hunt echoed into the garden. Despite his best efforts, Gehrman couldn’t block them out. The Hunt, he feared, would live with him the rest of his days or come and cut him down. None of that mattered, he thought as he continued to stroke the same strands of the doll’s fake hair over and over again. None of that mattered at all. The glow of the Hunt’s fiery rage reflected ever so faintly in the doll’s eyes.

Gehrman became lost in that reflection. The motion of the brush slowly stopped as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Oh, Laurence...” he quietly wept to himself. “What's taking you so long...? I've grown too old for this, of little use now, I'm afraid..."

He dropped the brush to the ground and continued to stare at the doll as he composed himself. Gravity once again decided to pull the top heavy doll into a slump—depriving it of the dignity Gehrman felt it deserved. The motion brought a small hair ornament that was resting in the hair on the back of the doll’s head into view. It was in immaculate shape—reflecting the moonlight off its smooth surface. Gehrman’s lip quivered as he stared at the ornament. He slowly pulled it out of the doll’s hair and wept as he held it close to his chest. An especially loud cry from the streets above snapped him out of his solemnity. He looked over his shoulder to see the glow of the hunt had grown stronger. The screams had become more frequent. The screams seemed to haunt him. Gehrman placed the ornament in his pocket. He grabbed the doll by the arm and slowly slung it over his shoulder. Leaving his cane on the ground, he rolled himself up toward the workshop.

After working his way up the incline, he finally made it inside. He rolled to the end of the room and let the doll slump against the wall. He turned and went to a cabinet next to the workbench holding all his unfinished projects. Several blades hung from the wall, begging to be finished. They thirsted for a violence that they would never experience. At least, not through Gehrman. His crafting days ended long ago. He slowly pulled himself to the upper door of the cabinet and opened it. Inside lay a disgusting thing. A rotten, slimy piece of meat that looked not unlike a tentacle or worm. It sat coiled up like a snake waiting to strike. Gehrman placed the ornament in the cabinet and carefully picked up the rank flesh. The smell didn’t bother Gehrman, for he had experienced much, much worse. He wheeled himself back towards the garden without looking back. Gehrman rolled down to the gate that led to the back of the workshop and heaved it open. Inside was the Great Tree with a plain of flowers stretched out before it. These flowers also showed the signs of neglect, but Gehrman had no interest in them. He wheeled himself up to the tree and sat in his chair facing away from it. This was always his favorite spot. He enjoyed watching Maria plant the flowers and care for them. He had watched this garden flourish because of her, and now it was dying because of him. A pang of guilt and despair hung low in his gut. He stared at the cord sitting on his lap—its smooth flesh glistening in the moonlight. He hated what this cord represented. He hated what he had done. He was to blame for it all, but he was going to make it right. Soon, Maria would return to him. Gehrman lifted the cord above his head with both hands. He screamed at the top of his lungs,

“Here it is, foul creature. The last remaining piece of your precious newborn. I was the one who cut it down. I took this last bit of its flesh as proof—proof that I am worthy.”

Gehrman wasn’t sure what he expected to happen but nothing did. His roar echoed throughout the workshop—bouncing off the surrounding cityscape and reverberating around the garden. He became enraged. After all he had been through, he wasn’t going to be ignored. He rose from his wheelchair and took a step forward with his good leg.  


“Are the Great Ones scared of a mere mortal? Hear me!”

He tried to take another step forward, but his peg leg failed him. Slipped and tumbled down the small hill before stopping face down with the umbilical cord still in his grip. Utterly defeated, Gehrman wept once more.

“Please. I just want her back. I’m so worthless now. I’m of no use. Please, someone—anyone—hear me.”

He heard an odd sound from above. He lifted his face up to see something floating before the moon, casting its shadow across the garden. Gehrman raised himself to his knees as the Great One descended. It looked like a skeleton with tentacles coming from its rear and skull, but the skull looked as if it had been deformed to the point where it was indiscernible what it looked like with flesh. The creature softly landed in front of Gehrman, who was captivated beyond words. He remembered his reason for calling it and extended the cord toward the Great One. The monster failed to react. It just stood there looking at Gehrman as if it were waiting for something. Perhaps, it had no idea why it had come down here in the first place. Gehrman tossed the cord aside and pleaded with the being.

“Please. I’ll do anything. Just bring my Maria back. That’s all I wish for.”

The Great One reached forward and gently pulled Gehrman toward it. It pushed its face into his chest and wrapped it tentacles around him. Gehrman wasn’t afraid. Whatever happened, he was going to see Maria again.

He awoke in his wheelchair in the workshop. He quickly looked around thinking he had been tricked, but he noticed the candles were full and burning. He wheeled himself outside to the hill that overlooked the garden. The moon hung unnaturally low in the sky, and the backdrop of the city had been replaced by a dense, grey fog the extended as far as the eye could see. Mysterious pillars rose from beneath the fog and shot into the layer above. The flowers looked well taken care of—just as they had while under Maria’s care. Gehrman wheeled down the hill to find the doll just where he had left it. It sat motionless against the wall supporting the workshop. His eyes ran along that same wall until they came across a basin of sorts that had an odd mist drifting out of it. Gehrman wheeled toward it and was startled when a small, hideous humanoid creature peeked its upper half from the mist. It made a soft groaning sound as it pulled out a Blood Vial and held it up. Gehrman looked at the creature a little closer trying to figure out what it was when a soft voice spoke from behind him.

“It is a Messenger.”

The voice gave Gehrman a start and he whipped his chair around to see the doll standing in front of him.

“They are rather adorable, are they not?” it asked. Its lips didn’t move as it spoke, but its eyes looked Gehrman in his as if it had a soul of its own. Gehrman started to weep as he rolled toward it.

“My dear Maria,” he sobbed as he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face into her blouse. “You’ve come back.”

The Doll looked down at him with her expressionless face.

“No, Gehrman,” she replied. “I am a doll. I am here to look after you.”

Gehrman heard what the doll said, but it didn’t sink in. He continued to happily cry into its blouse at seeing his Maria again. As time went on and the excitement of their reunion faded, Gehrman started to realize the truth in the Doll’s words. It was by no means Maria, but a sad attempt at recreating her. Maria was there in appearance, but the Doll lacked her soul. It lacked the way she looked at the flowers as she cared for them. It wasn’t able to hold a conversation like Maria could either. The Doll was a husk in which the basic components of a human being were inserted. It went through the motions to comfort Gehrman, but in time he began to resent it. It was his creation after all, and he felt shame for bringing it into the world. The longer he spent with the Doll, the more he despised it. He sent it to sit in its old spot while he hid away in the workshop—the only remaining memento of his old life.

Once this resentment came to a peak, the Hunters started arriving. They were young and inexperienced. They were Hunters only in name—not in skill. Gehrman was too old and tired to try and teach them anything. Instead, he sent them to their deaths among the streets of Yharnam with the hope they would never return. Yet they always did. There was some outside force drawing the Hunters back to the Dream and to Gehrman. Gehrman realized this must be what the Great One wanted in return. He could almost sense it—like it was something he knew all along, or that it was what he was meant to do his whole life. He was drawn to assisting these Hunters as much as they were drawn to him for guidance. Eventually each Hunter would serve their purpose or show their worth. Hunters who came through the Dream had the wonderful gift of immortality and with it they accomplished many incredible things. Gehrman then offered them the choice between surrendering their gift and returning to the world as a mortal, or fighting their mentor to take his place.

Gehrman had gotten himself in a nightmare. He couldn’t stand the sight of the Doll any longer, and he couldn’t escape this place until he was slain. He couldn’t take his own life, as the will of the Great One drove him to find a surrogate. The Great Ones couldn’t reproduce, so they sought surrogates. This Great One, which Gehrman had likened to calling the Moon Presence, came up with the clever scheme of letting Gehrman do the work of sorting through the countless Hunters who sparked with potential. The Moon Presence wouldn’t be satisfied until someone killed Gehrman and showed their worth. So it was this nightmare that Gehrman found himself in—forever wishing he could end his imprisonment with the shame of his own selfishness embodied in a living doll and killing Hunter after Hunter in cold blood to appease the will of a supposed Great One. The Doll buried each slain Hunter. The tombstones increased in number as time passed on. There was sense of time to Gehrman. He couldn’t tell if he had been trapped for years or mere minutes. Soon a wall of tombstones lined the garden surrounding the great tree. That tree was still his favorite spot to sit. He looked over the garden and the beautiful flowers—imaging his Maria taking care of them while humming that nursery rhyme she loved so much. This is where he killed the Hunters as well in order to remind Gehrman of why he did all this. For Maria.

So there he sat. Meditating beneath the great tree, lost in his own mania. He heard footsteps approaching and looked up to see the Plain Doll approaching.

“Gehrman, a new Hunter has arrived. She will need your guidance.”

Gehrman gave a knowing nod and started rolling his chair back toward the workshop. One thing was for certain—the night, and the Hunt, were long.  

 


End file.
